Poppy's Place in the Sun

by Lorraine Wilson

  She has been decorating the house and making the changes that you always talked about but never had time to do. She is so like you in many ways. Not least in that she likes taking in waifs and strays.

  At first I thought I would hate the idea of the house going to a stranger, but Poppy doesn’t really feel like a stranger. She seems to belong here somehow. I like Poppy, but everything is a bit complicated at the moment. I haven’t been at my best and I could have been a bit nicer when she moved in. Sometimes I think that she likes me but other times I’m not so sure … And there is the fact that she had originally planned to move here with her boyfriend. I don’t think she is still into him but who knows? Well that’s a subject for another email another day perhaps? With much love as ever, please give my kisses to darling Amelie.

  Love from Leo

  This afternoon I’m trying to make the fence and hedge between the garden and the donkey field chihuahua proof. I’m also working on their recall skills. Ha.

  I’m worried the chihuahuas will escape into the field and get kicked by the donkeys. The dogs seem to think they’re invincible which means they scare the hell out of me at least several times a day by carrying out death defying leaps, forcing wolf size dogs to bend to their will and eating things in the garden that I’m sure they shouldn’t.

  Peanut can fit through the tiniest space and she enlists Treacle as an accomplice by default. Pickwick, despite being a miniature Yorkie, is a third bigger than they are and is thankfully too big to do the limbo through the minuscule holes.

  As I can’t afford to get a fencing company in to do all the boundaries, put the fence deep in the ground or create a moat I’m attempting to create my own Colditz style chihuahua containment strategies. This basically involves attaching chicken wire to the bottom of the fence and then hammering it with tent pegs into the ground to stop the dogs or any other furries from pushing the wire back up.

  By the time Angeline comes into the field to fill the water trough I’m thoroughly sick of expending huge amounts of effort for very little result. The hedge has taken a dislike to me and because I was stupid enough to attempt the job without gloves my hands and arms have come up in tiny weals that look and feel like burns. I should’ve learnt from my last excursion into a hedge. Along with the scratches from the wire and the pain building up in my joints I’m thoroughly fed up.

  I need a dose of Angeline. I now know why the locals nickname her Angel. Five minutes conversation with her is like a shot of Prozac to the system. She took the goats without so much as a murmur. I think I may have cried with relief.

  I down tools and walk round to the gate. The dogs are all up on the back of the living room sofa watching me intently, eyes wide with accusation that I’ve refused to let them help.

  “Hello Poppy, how are you?” Angeline envelopes me in cheek kisses and a hug.

  “Hmm, okay.” I lie outrageously. Right now I’m utterly demoralised but admitting it might open the floodgates and I’m sure Angeline has better things to do with her time than mopping up emotional leakage.

  “How about you?”

  “It’s been a very busy day.” Despite her tiredness Angeline is smiling and neatly sidesteps when one of the donkeys tries to head butt her.

  Oh fuckity fuck. Leo is walking towards us. I can’t vanish now without it looking really rude.

  He joins us and eyes the weals on my arms. “Has your phone been beating you up again?”

  “No, it was the hedge this time. It doesn’t like me.” I cross my arms then realise how defensive my body language is so uncross them again. We have been getting on better since the goat incident and Barney has helped a lot too, but I still don’t know how to be around Leo. “How’s Maxi?”

  “Okay. And your four?” Leo absentmindedly pats one of the donkeys who noses his pockets to see if he’s got any food.

  “All fine thank you.” I cross my arms again, unable to work out what to do with them.

  Stupid arms. What were they doing while I was talking to Angeline? I wasn’t even aware of them then so why are they such a problem now?

  And talking of Angeline, her raised eyebrows and amused smile as she looks at the two of us makes me think my “polite but detached” approach is fooling no one. If I’m not fooling her then I’m not fooling Leo.

  “You’ve got a friend staying?” Leo asks.

  “Yes.” I decide I’m not exactly lying. I would now describe Joanna as a friend. “She’s helping with the decorating.”

  “So you’re going ahead with the guesthouse idea?”

  I nod tersely. Angeline is uncharacte‌ristically silent, busying herself with tidying bits of old baling twine.

  “I’d better get back inside, I think I need an antihistamine,” I mumble, eyes suddenly hot and stinging with unshed tears. The weals on my arms and hands are burning. I’ve had allergic reactions before, but this is a really nasty one. My joints are threatening me with menacing spikes of pain, reminding me that perseverance alone isn’t going to make me capable of manual labour.

  I’d hoped mind over matter and sheer bloody mindedness would enable me to get things done but I’ve only completed a third of the stretch bordering the donkey field and I’m ready to burst into tears.

  “Try aloe vera lotion too,” Angeline suggests as I slip back through the gate.

  The gate. Great, I’m going to have to cover the gate with chicken wire too. Oh joy.

  I leave all my things out. I’m afraid if I stay to clear up now I’ll start crying while Leo is still in sight and I couldn’t bear him to see.

  I make it to the back door before the tears slide down my cheeks. I close it firmly behind me, sit down at the kitchen table and slump, resting my head on the table.

  The dogs come rushing into the kitchen along with Joanna. Peanut leaps onto my lap and nestles there while the other two dogs crowd around my ankles.

  “What on earth happened?”

  “The garden hates me.” I keep my head on the table, not wanting Joanna to see how wet my cheeks are. “The bush bit me. Lots.”

  “God, you’re right. Do you want me to fetch you an antihistamine?”

  “Yes please,” I reply, pathetically grateful. “And I think there’s some Aloe Vera gel in the bathroom cabinet as well.”

  Her brief absence gives me time to dry my cheeks. I don’t want her to think I’m crying over a superficial burning rash.

  “Would you like me to do the rest of the fence?”

  “No it’s fine, you’ve got enough to do with the sanding.” I smile and accept the gel and tablets. “I’ll get some thick gardening gloves to do the rest.”

  “Hmm. Hot chocolate?” Joanna offers, eyeing my face. Her petite features crease with concern.

  So far we’ve had an unspoken mutual pact not to pry. I think it’s suited us both to have a bit of space to lick our wounds. I know Joanna has wounds because I see her red eyes in the morning but I assume she’ll talk to me when or if she wants to. I’ve been feeling too raw, trying to process my feelings for Leo and his apparent desire for me to bog off back to the UK.

  Humiliation and hibernation tend to go hand in hand.

  Joanna’s homemade hot chocolate is a good remedy for both and it’s almost as soothing as the aloe vera gel I’ve applied to my arms.

  She sits down at the table with me. “How about looking for a different solution?”

  “Like what?” I sip my chocolate, it’s heavenly. I wouldn’t have the patience to make it from scratch myself, but it is far superior to anything I could make from a packet. My ragged nerves are soothed by the creamy chocolate. The butterflies in my stomach have stopped their frantic fluttering of wings and I’m feeling a bit more Poppy-ish again.

  I wonder for a second if she’s talking about Leo or the fence. Just how much did she overhear at the café?

  “I did some research and unfortunately the dogs are all too small to have GPS implants. They can’t get the technology small enough yet.” Joanna scrolls down th
e screen of her mobile. “But you can get something for their collars. You put an app on your iPhone and it will tell you where they are at any given time. You can also set up a virtual fence and if they go outside that fence it sends an alert to your phone. You have to buy a SIM card but it’s far more reliable than any of the Bluetooth devices.”

  “Oh, really? That sounds far better than pegging sodding chicken wire around all the fences.” My mood brightens. “Thanks for doing all that research.”

  “No problem, it’s the least I could do.” Joanna stares down into her mug. “You’ve got no idea how much I appreciate you letting me stay here. It’s just what I need.”

  “Good, I’m glad I could help. The feeling is reciprocal, trust me.” I finish my drink. “Hey, I’d probably let you stay just in return for making me hot chocolate and cooking, never mind the decorating. God knows what I should be paying you. I can’t help feeling like I’m taking advantage.”

  “Not at all. If I wanted to rent a farmhouse in the south of France at this time of year it would cost me a packet and helping you out suits me far more than waitressing. My French isn’t really up to scratch and being somewhere a bit more private suits me better,” she says, more animated than I’ve seen her since she moved in.

  “So I shouldn’t be feeling horribly guilty? You’re sure you’re happy here?” I ask hopefully.

  “No you shouldn’t be feeling guilty. You’re doing me a huge favour. Let’s think of it as a working holiday. Actually, I was going to ask if you’d let me help with making the website and marketing and stuff. If you don’t mind that is. I don’t want to step on your toes, it’s none of my business really but I think it would be fun.”

  “Would I mind? I’m thinking of asking you to marry me.” I laugh. “You can cook, you’re good at DIY and you’re helpful around the house.”

  Joanna laughs but looks pleased I think, her cheeks a little pink. I’d love to ask what she did before she left England to travel. She seems too switched on to be a drifter. I’m more and more convinced she was forced to leave her life behind.

  A sudden thought occurs to me.

  “As regards the marrying thing you know I’m straight, yes?”

  Joanna really laughs then, in a relaxed way that makes her light up.

  “Trust me Poppy, you’re very straight. I’m into men too. Well strictly speaking at the moment I’m not into anyone. Far too much hassle.” A trace of sadness creeps back into her eyes.

  I feel angry on her behalf, with whoever crushed her spirit.

  “Yes, far too much hassle,” I agree.

  But then I think about Leo and what Sophie said about seeing things through his eyes and everything he’s dealing with … I want to reach out to him despite the hassle. It matters more than the fear of rejection or a bit of injured pride.

  When I go to let the dogs out later on I find my hammer and the remains of the chicken wire placed neatly to one side of the back door. There are no tent pegs though so I go off in search of them to find someone has finished attaching the wire to the whole length of the fence bordering the donkey field. They’ve even gone on a little further, presumably only breaking off when they ran out of tent pegs.

  When I go to question Joanna she looks genuinely blank. Also I know she’s been stripping wallpaper since we had our chat. She says she finds it therapeutic.

  Which leaves the issue of the Good Samaritan behind the chihuahua-containment fence, or the donkey-defence fence, depending on your point of view, an unsolved mystery. Alongside the other Languedoc mysteries like the location of the hidden Cathar treasure or the search for the holy grail it hardly ranks very highly for most people, I’m sure.

  But it’s one mystery I’m keen to solve.

  My calmer mood doesn’t last long. I’m already in the leggings and T-Shirt that now constitutes my I’m-single-so-I-don’t-give-a-stuff nightwear. I can’t wait to crawl into bed and I’m thinking about begging Joanna to make me another hot chocolate I can take up with me when she hurries into the kitchen, her face pinched, eyes full of fear.

  My imagination goes into overdrive and my first crazy thought is that whatever or whoever she’s been running away from has found her. Has her abusive ex from my imaginings tracked her to St Quentin? Not that I know for sure Joanna has an abusive ex, but it seems a logical assumption. She’s afraid of someone for sure. Scared rigid I’d say.

  My stomach lurches violently and despite my exhaustion I tense up, muscles taut with fear as I jog after Joanna into the living room. Treacle is sitting propped at a funny angle against one of the sofa cushions which has found its way onto the floor. His head is twitching in an odd spasmodic way that sends shards of ice down my spine.

  It’s when I see his eyes though, that I feel really sick. He’s not there. There’s an absent, unfocused quality to his stare.

  Usually I pride myself on being calm in a crisis. Despite my family’s accusation that I lack practical and common sense, purely because I’m an artist, I can normally assess a situation and decide on a course of action without panicking, crying or going into hysterics.

  But the blankness I see in Treacle’s eyes fills me with terror.

  “How long has he been like that?” I interrogate Joanna. “Did he fall or bang his head?”

  “I don’t know, I found him like it and came to get you straight away.” She’s pale and seems on the verge of tears. I ought to reassure her but I’m too distraught. I need to focus, need to think…

  As we watch him his head stops twitching and his eyes appear to refocus. Should I move him? Not move him? Where the sodding hell is my Dog First Aid Encyclopaedia? With all my other stuff in sodding storage.

  I force myself to take a deep breath. I haven’t got time to waste trying to get a good enough phone signal to google what to do so I listen to my instincts and scoop Treacle up off the floor, cuddling him against me. I gently stroke his back and kiss the top of his soft head. Of all the dogs I’ve worried the most over Treacle. He didn’t bounce back from the mistreatment by his previous owners with the same confidence as Peanut, or any confidence at all really. He’s always been the most fragile of the dogs, the most timid and the one in greatest need of my love.

  “Do you think that was a seizure?” I voice the dreaded S word. “I mean it was just his head but his eyes, they didn’t look right.”

  “I don’t know, hang on, I’ll see if I’ve got a good signal.” Joanna pulls her phone out from a pocket and stands on the sofa by the window. “Yes, good enough for a text search. Hang on … Seizures, partial seizures … Hmm it seems dogs can have partial seizures that affect just part of their body, so…”

  “I’m taking him over to the vets. Angeline often works late doing the paperwork.” I walk swiftly towards the hallway, mind made up and grab the fabric baby sling I used for when Pickwick hurt his leg and wasn’t supposed to put weight on it. It also came in handy when Treacle was too terrified to face the world. I’d take him on walks with the others and in his own time he’d wriggle to get down and join them in squirrel sniffs in the park or a game of ball. He associates it with being his safe place.

  While his eyes are focused again he’s abnormally quiet and still, content to snuggle into my chest.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Joanna hovers next to me in the hallway.

  Peanut jumps up at me anxiously, sensing my mood. Pickwick and Barney just woof excitedly, assuming we’re all going for a walk.

  “No I’ll be fine. Could you look after the others though? Peanut’s already stressed out and I don’t want to leave them all howling. Is that okay?” I slip bare feet into my Ugg boots and look on the hook for the torch. Not there. Never mind, no time to look for it. I should be able to see enough by moonlight and with the lights from the village. I’ve always got the torch app on my phone if necessary.

  “Of course I’ll look after them. You know … don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be okay.” Joanna lightly touches my arm then scoops up Peanut and
Pickwick, one under each arm, so they can’t escape when I open the front door.

  I barely hear her words as I step outside. My teeth are clenched so tightly my jaw aches. With a conscious effort I take a deeper breath and try to relax for Treacle’s sake. If it’s true that animals can smell our stress pheromones I’m doing him no good at all.

  “You’ll be okay sweetheart, don’t worry.” I cuddle him through the sling. “Angeline is going to sort you out. We’ll look after you.”

  The walk to the vets isn’t too bad as there’s enough moonlight to see the path once my eyes have adjusted. I could’ve driven but that would’ve meant extra time to find the car keys and the surgery is only down the lane and a little way down the main road. This is quicker. Plus I’m feeling a bit too shaken up to drive, to tell the truth and I need to hold Treacle close to me.

  I see a dim light in the vets’ surgery reception and feel a surge of relief. When I get closer and see no signs of activity I don’t panic, assuming Angeline or a veterinary nurse is out the back with an admission. I knock on the door, but nobody comes. After a third attempt at knocking I get my phone out and switch on the torch app to see if I can find any emergency contact numbers on a sign anywhere. I can’t find anything so Google the main number and ring to see if there’s a recorded message telling me what to do, but crossing everything someone will magically appear from the back rooms to answer the phone.

  No one comes. I listen to the recorded message and feel engulfed with panic for the second time this evening. My chest constricts. I don’t understand the frigging message. I turn around and swiftly head for home. I don’t know where to find Angeline but at least I know where Leo lives and I’m going to see him now. I couldn’t care less if I’m crossing boundaries. I don’t even care if he hates me and wants me gone, not enough to make me hesitate for one second to get help for Treacle.

  As I stumble my way back onto the main road it occurs to me I’m far more distraught at the possibility of losing Treacle than I was at the reality of losing Pete. Something’s definitely off-kilter about that but now isn’t the time to examine it.